My heart squeezes. Jame. She called me that in the car, too, and I thought I was dreaming as my head spun and I briefly wove in and out of awareness.

“Pleasure,” I tell them. “I apologize for us barging in on such short noti—”

“Goodness,” Maureen says. “Not at all! Bill and I were just sitting down to dinner, and don’t you know, burgers were on the menu.”

I glance at my watch, doing a double take. “It’s . . . eleven thirty.”

Bill steps behind Maureen, whose apron has come loose, and reties it. “Travel as much as we do, and you lose all sense of mealtimes.”

Maureen smiles and shrugs. “We eat when we’re hungry. And I’m so glad I have more mouths to feed, because you know me, I get carried away in the kitchen!”

Following them through the foyer, I feel an odd swoop in my stomach, worse than when the full pain of my tattoo came raging to the surface of my skin. This is . . . so foreign to me. An affectionate mother, a father who smiles kindly and fawns over his wife. Parents who want their grown child and her partner not to parade about, performing some societal duty, but simply to be together because they love her.

I glance at Bea, wondering how she could even stomach my father’s party this evening. The proud posturing, the arrogant showmanship, the cold, impersonal, inane conversation. And a creeping fear grips my heart. Did she see how much I look like him? Does she remember what I was like when we met? Does she worry time will change me, that one day I’ll resemble my father—all sharp prickles and frigid, cutting edges? Are her memories of the night we met, like mine, already turned fond by the passage of time, or is being here with me reminding her how horribly we began, the terrible first impression I made on her?

As if she’s read my spiraling thoughts, Bea slides her hand down my forearm until our fingers lock tight. “I’m glad we came,” she whispers.

I squeeze her hand and steal a quick, world-righting kiss. “Me, too.”

—

Not that I doubted Bea, but it is the best burger of my life. After our late-night meal, Bill sweet-talks us into staying for a few games of euchre, which becomes many games of euchre, thanks to Bea’s brutally competitive streak and my absolute delight in all of it.

Now, somehow, it’s four in the morning, and we’re outside Bea’s apartment door, slaphappy and exhausted.

“Shh,” she whispers, putting the key in the lock and turning. “Or maybe I should say, cover your ears. Those two aren’t quiet.”

I shudder involuntarily. It makes Bea hysterical.

“Now you shh,” I whisper.

She shuts the door behind us and smiles saucily. “Make me.”